Pygmalion
by MissLolaLavell
Summary: When Dave Karofsky made a failed attempt to kill himself, Kurt felt compelled to help him to come to terms with his sexuality. He never expected to fall in love...  eventual Dave/Kurt
1. Prologue

_Prologue:_

* * *

The first time that Dave Karofsky tried to kill himself, it was just after his mom had left. Not right away, of course, because - in the beginning, at least - he'd still harboured hope that she might yet come home. He had sat on the front porch for what had felt like weeks, certain that every car that came roaring down the street would pull up outside his house and _she _would step out, glamorous and lovely as ever, and cheerfully explain that the whole thing had been a silly misunderstanding, and that she'd only been away on vacation, or on a business trip, or in hospital with clinical amnesia, or _something_. He'd felt so _sure_, so confident of his mother's love, that it had seemed impossible that she would not come back for him at some point. But days had turned to weeks, and she hadn't returned. The summer had faded to an early fall, and the leaves on the magnolia tree in his front yard had turned russet, and still she hadn't returned. Finally the day had come when his father had sat down wearily on the porch next to him, rested a heavy hand on Dave's shoulder, and told him what his heart already knew.

"David, you have to stop this. She's not coming back."

And he was right, of course. Dave had known that, even as he'd watched hopefully for her homecoming.

* * *

Looking back on it all - even now, years later - Dave still wasn't sure if he'd actually intended to try and kill himself that day. He had been only thirteen years old - barely self-aware enough to register what was happening, or why. All he knew is that his mom had gone - disappeared off into the sunset with some sleazebag that she'd met through work - and that she had left him behind without so much as a backward glance. She hadn't fought with his father's for custody, or tried to talk him into going with her, she'd just…gone. And that _hurt_. It hurt so much that he could hardly breath. And when he came home one day to an empty house, his mind had drifted to the sleeping pills that his mom had kept in a drawer in the dresser beside her bed, and it had all seemed like such an obvious solution…

It wasn't that he had wanted to die, exactly. He just wanted to close his eyes, and drift into a long, dreamless sleep.

Long enough for the aching hollow in his chest go away.

Long enough for his beautiful mother to love him again.

He had no recollection of actually taking the pills, although he knew that he certainly had. He did remember that he'd washed them down with orange soda from the refrigerator (and even now the smell of orange soda makes him feel sick to his stomach) and that afterwards he had gone upstairs and laid in his bed, waiting for sleep to engulf his senses. And it had, for a time. He had floated effortlessly through a drug-induced haze, serenely disconnected from the world around him and all it's troublesome complications. The darkness had felt warm and familiar, and he had felt no sense of trepidation as he had drifted further and further away from himself, down into the yawning abyss that had surged up to meet him…

Then there had been a sudden cry, and the awareness of being pulled sharply from the bed by a pair of impossibly strong hands. His eyes had rolled open briefly, and he had been vaguely surprised to find his father carrying him hurriedly down the hallway, his face grey and taunt in a way that Dave had never seen before. Before he had time to process this, however, Paul Karofsky had kicked open the door to the bathroom, dropped Dave onto his knees, and roughly forced his mouth open. Jamming an index finger down his throat had had desired affect, and within seconds Dave was overtaken by a sickening tide of nausea.

"Don't do this to me, David" Paul had muttered desperately as his son threw up the contents of his stomach over the tiled floor, "Don't you dare leave me too."

Paul's words brought Dave back to himself. They had cut through his delirium like a knife through a fog, and Dave had heard his own loneliness echoed in his father's voice.

"I'm sorry Dad," he had said - or tried to, at least, but the drugs had made his mouth clumsy and unresponsive, and his words were reduced to an animalistic whine.

But he was sorry, nonetheless.

Dave was always sorry.

* * *

At the hospital, there had been questions. Was he unhappy? Had he ever done anything like this before? Had he intended to overdose, or was it an accident? Dave had just shrugged mutely at their probing, his expression closed, his gaze guarded. He had explained what had happened to his father, of course - albeit a heavily abridged, somewhat over-simplified version of events. He had told him that he had had a headache, and had taken the sleeping pills so that he could sleep for a while. He feigned ignorance at how many he had taken, and made a convincing show of being shocked at how dangerous the drug's affects had been. The sad, defeated look in Paul Karofsky's eyes told him that his father didn't believe him, but he did not challenge Dave over his story either, and, like so many other matters in the Karofksy household, the issue was swept neatly away and effectively ignored from that point on, never to trouble their middle class respectability again.

* * *

On the day that he was discharged from the hospital, Dave had been summoned to the doctor's office with his father. It had been a pleasant, sunny room, but the sickly disinfectant smell from the wards had seemed to permeate the very fabric of the building, and Dave had felt reluctant to stay there any longer than was absolutely necessary. Neither his father nor the doctor showed any interest in involving him in the discussion, and he had zoned in and out conversation of as they had talked about his recovery. After a while, however, the talk turned to the subject of his ongoing treatment, and Dave had found himself listening uneasily as the doctor began to talk about getting Dave psychiatric help..

"That won't be necessary, thank you," his father had said firmly with a dismissive shake of the head. "Our church has an excellent youth pastor. David already has all the support that he needs."

The doctor had steepled his fingers under his chin, his expression grave. "Mr Karofsky, with all due respect, I feel that David's depression requires addressing in a more…professional environment. I can recommend a superb psychiatrist with decades of experience in cases such as these."

"There's no need. My son is fine."

The doctor's gaze had been steady as he had peered over the rims of his glasses to meet his father's eyes. "Sir, your son just attempted _suicide_. He requires ongoing support, or there's a real risk that he may attempt to harm himself again in the future."

The corner of his father's mouth had twitched downward. When he spoke again, his words was clipped with icy civility, and Dave had recognised the finality implicit in the tone.

"David had an accident - that's all. He has explained himself, and I'm satisfied that it won't happen again. _Should _any problems arise, they will be dealt with privately within our family, and our church. I see no reason to involve psychiatrists, however well qualified." He had risen from his chair, indicating for his son to follow suit. "Thank you for your time, doctor. We can see ourselves out."

Dave had followed his father out of the office, his eyes downcast so that he did not meet the doctor's gaze. They had gone out to the car and driven home in complete silence. The subject of psychiatric help was never discussed again.

* * *

Paul Karofsky was a god-fearing man. A few days after Dave had returned from the hospital, he had presented his son with a small leather bible, it's pages worn and shabby with frequent use. Dave had recognised it as belonging to his father.

"I know that thing's haven't been easy for you recently, David," Paul had said stiffly, looking every bit as stilted and awkward as he plainly felt. "But this book has always steered me through difficult times. I'm sure that it will help you too."

After he had left, Dave had opened the bible and thumbed through a few passages. Salvation, however, remained illusive. For all his father's unwavering belief that grace could come from a book, when Dave read the words, they remained just that - words. He found no great power or wisdom in them, nothing that stirred his soul to deliverance. He wasn't certain if he had lost his faith or if perhaps he had never really had any to start with, but he found no comfort in the scriptures, and to his shame the bible ended up stuffed behind a dictionary on his bookshelf, slowly gathering dust.

Periodically, guilt would gnaw away at him enough that he would feel compelled to take the bible out from it's hiding place and flick through the pages, as though the act alone would somehow produce a miracle of faith. It didn't, of course. But he did find something of his father's religious fervour, though he would later wish that he had not. Paul Karofsky had gone through the entire bible from cover to cover, marking out the passages that he felt contained particular relevance or spiritual truth. It was in reading these marked passages that Dave had found an underlined section in Leviticus that had made his heart hammer against the cage of his chest.

_"You shall not lie with a male as those who lie with a female; it is an abomination."_

His father had underscored the word 'abomination' several times for significance.

Dave had stared at the word for a long time. Even back then, he had known that there was something wrong with him, and there it was, printed in black and white and underscored in pencil for good measure. And suddenly, everything had begun to make sense. That was why his mom had gone…why his dad was so distant…why God remained stonily silent to him, whilst faith poured out so easily to everyone else. It was him. He was sick, wrong.

He was an abomination.

* * *

Dave had never wanted to be like this. He'd fought it. God knows, he'd fought it.

Now aged seventeen years old, he'd become so good at pretending to be normal that there were times that he almost believed it to be true. He was the kid at school that nobody messed with. He played sports. He f*cked cheerleaders. He acted dumb when the teachers asked him questions in class. He terrorised Kurt Hummel. He was a typical, high school Jock, and he played his part like the consummate actor that he had become.

…But in the end, however hard he tried, nothing ever really changed. The guilty desires that plagued him in the night were always there, running along silently beside him, goading him to let his mask slip _just once _and act on all of those shameful little impulses. And he was tired…so very tired. It was exhausting trying keeping up this pretence - there were days when he felt like he was being crushed by the weight of the facade that he had built for himself...

And then, one day, he realised that his life wasn't really a life at all.

That was the day that he tried to kill himself a second time.

* * *

_Tbc..._


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1:_

* * *

The first time that Blaine kissed Kurt, it was everything that Kurt had ever imagined that a first kiss _should _be. Standing in the echoing darkness of Dalton's auditorium, the spotlights glittering like stars in the sky, the scene couldn't have been more perfect if Kurt had orchestrated it himself…which he hadn't, not really, though he certainly suspected that Blaine may have had a hand in engineering the situation. Blaine was warm, slow and tender, and he tasted like spearmint mouthwash - exactly as Kurt had known that he would. Afterwards, when they pulled reluctantly apart, Kurt had watched in a daze as Blaine had smiled lovingly and raised Kurt's hand to his mouth for a final, chastely chivalrous kiss.

Kurt had let out a breath that he hadn't realised that he was holding, prompting Blaine to quirk his eyebrows upward teasingly.

"You okay, Kurt?"

Kurt had swallowed down, struggling to contain the swell of joy that had momentarily tightened his throat. "I am so, _so _much better than okay," he had murmured dreamily. "That was…"

"Amazing?" Blaine interjected, his expression as serenely confident as ever. There had been no trace of vanity or arrogance in his choice of descriptive - just matter-of-fact self-assurance that what he spoke was the truth.

Kurt had found himself nodding in agreement, his gaze steady as his eyes met Blaine's.

"Yeah. Amazing."

* * *

And it _had _been amazing - there was no doubt about that - which is why Kurt found himself completely at a loss to explain why it was not Blaine's kiss that kept him awake in the long, empty stretches of the night, but Dave Karofsky's.

Dave Karofsky. The selfsame Dave Karofsky that had made it his mission to make Kurt's life a misery for over a year now. Dave Karofsky who emanated homophobia and good old fashioned American bigotry from every pore of his being. Dave Karofsky who had stunned him with a kiss that was as unwelcome as it was unexpected - a kiss that, for all his attempts to forget and move on, felt as though it had been permanently grafted onto his consciousness, like a tattoo on his brain. Night after night, Kurt found himself replaying the scene in the locker-room over again, struggling even now to grasp at exactly what point the universe had turned completely upside down and Karofsky had become gay.

It both annoyed and disturbed him how completely Karofsky's kiss had come to dominate his thoughts. After so many years of aching loneliness, Kurt _finally _had a boyfriend - a really hot boyfriend, as it happened - and yet instead of being able to drift off to sleep with memories of Blaine running through his mind, all he could think about was Karofsky. Big, dumb sweaty Karofsky. And he couldn't for the life of him understand _why_.

In truth, looked at objectively, the incident with Karofsky did not compare favourably to his kiss with Blaine. Where Blaine had tasted like spearmint mouthwash, Karofsky had tasted like bubble-gum and cafeteria meatloaf. The locker-room had stunk of perspiring bodies and cheap deodorant, and Karofsky's palms had been sweating as they gripped the side of Kurt's face. All in all, as far as romantic overtures went, the whole thing had been an impulsive, fumbling disaster on Karofsky's behalf.

And yet…

The memory of Karofsky's mouth crushed forcefully against his own - hot and rough and _desperate_ - made Kurt's stomach twist in knots whenever he thought about it. He remembered the heat in Karofsky's eyes as he'd moved in for that second kiss, and it made Kurt ache in a way that he didn't care to analyse too deeply. It was raw, and it was ugly in a way that Kurt had not realised that a kiss could be, and yet it had sparked an unwelcome echo of response from the darker corners of Kurt's mind. And always the same question burned through his mind, hour after lonely hour…

…Just what would have happened if Kurt hadn't pulled away?

* * *

Kurt was sitting at a window booth in Starbucks when Mercedes found him. Staring pensively out at the snow-covered side-walk, he was entirely unaware of her approach until an extra-large mocha chino was slammed angrily down on the table in front of him, causing scalding hot coffee to jump out of the styrofoam cup and onto his sweater.

"Hey!" Kurt jumped, startled from his reverie, and turned to find Mercedes Jones glaring accusingly down at him.

"Don't _'hey' _me, Princess," she snapped, "I've been trying to call you for _days_. You never answer your cell anymore. What gives?"

Kurt sighed and began to gingerly wipe at his stained front with a paper napkin. "Okay, first of all, this sweater? Prada. Mess with it again and I'm going to have a meltdown of Britney Spears proportions. Secondly, the Warblers have been working overtime on the set lists for Regionals, and I've been put in charge of choreography. I barely have time to sleep at the moment, never mind manage a social life."

Mercedes arched an eyebrow, her arms folded across her chest. She glanced over her shoulder towards the nearby counter, where Blaine could be seen leaning casually against the wall, chatting to the server whilst he waited for his order.

"You still find time to stop for coffee with your boy though, huh?"

Kurt flushed visibly and looked away, guilt gnawing uncomfortably at the pit of his stomach. Since his move to Dalton, his friendship with Mercedes had becomes increasingly strained, and she had made attempt to hide how she felt about being side-lined in favour of Kurt's relationship with Blaine. It was something that Kurt was still struggling to deal with, and he wasn't quite sure how to proceed in the matter. Thankfully, however, on this occasion Mercedes decided to spare him from having to justify Blaine's presence. She slid into the booth opposite him, her expression suddenly expectant.

"So? Has Finn filled you in on what's been going down at school?"

Kurt snorted as he began absently folding the napkin into a neat little square. "_Hardly_. Finn Hudson only has two topics of conversation: football, and Rachel Berry. Frankly, I'd rather gouge my own ears out with a fork then have to listen to his thoughts on either of _those _subjects."

Mercedes looked at him impatiently. She leant forward in her seat, her tone lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So you haven't heard about Karofsky?"

Kurt expression shuttered instantly at the mention of Karofsky's name. He swallowed hard and averted his gaze, trying desperately to force his features into neutrality.

"No. What about him?"

"He tried to _kill _himself."

Something ugly tightened in Kurt's throat. He had a disconcerting sensation of vertigo, as though the ground had suddenly disappeared beneath his feet and he was left suspended over the edge of an abyss, wondering exactly how he had come to be there. His head swam with too much oxygen and he found himself clutching at the edge of the table, needing to feel something solid beneath his fingertips for reassurance.

"Are you sure? I mean, _Karofsky _Karofsky?"

Mercedes looked positively gleeful as she leant in closer, eager to share in what was evidently the gossip of the century. "Slit his wrists. Apparently his dad came home from church early and found him like that. Messed up, right?"

Kurt's head was hammering against his chest so loudly that he was certain that the entire coffee-shop must have been able to hear it. He drew in a shuddering breath, and tried to force himself into calm. It didn't work. Instead, his thoughts turned to the memory of the locker-room, and the ghost of the kiss that he could still feel burning against his lips...

"Why would he do something like that?" he murmured, as much to himself than Mercedes. Mercedes shrugged, and it was clear that she had given little thought towards Karofsky's motivation in the whole sorry business.

"Maybe it finally dawned on him what a Grade A dickwad he is, and decided to do the world a favour? Anyway, who cares? The point is, he's not going to be hassling _you _again any time soon."

Kurt closed his eyes briefly, allowing her words to sink in. When he opened them again, his face was carefully schooled into a look of complete and utter detachment, betraying nothing of the sickness that he felt rising in his gut.

"No," he said quietly, his gaze drawn upwards as Blaine approached the table bearing a tray. "I guess he won't."


End file.
